


Guess Who

by redreaper86



Series: Guess [1]
Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: Banter, Colin Farrell Penguin, First Meetings, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, Love at First Sight, M/M, Paul Dano Riddler, Riddlebird 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26316022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/pseuds/redreaper86
Summary: After Carmine Falcone falls to Gotham’s newest serial killer known as the Riddler, Oswald Cobblepot doesn’t waste time taking over the late kingpin’s turf. But one night he goes into his office in his nightclub and finds a very unwelcome visitor perched on his desk. Guess who it is…
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: Guess [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941793
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	Guess Who

_Uneasy is the head that wears the crown…_

Oswald shook his own head as the old saying reverberated through his mind, more to shake the rain from his hair than to dislodge his anxiety about his newly minted position as ‘king’ of the Gotham underworld in the wake of Carmine Falcone’s demise. _I really should stop forgetting my umbrella_ , he scolded himself as he walked into his nightclub, newly renovated and packed to the rafters with all types of Gothamites out for a good time, just wanting to forget that a serial killer stalked their city. 

Speaking of, he, Oswald Cobblepot, would do well not to forget that fact, as with Falcone out of the way he was now squarely in this killer’s crosshairs. The Riddler, as the media had dubbed the killer for his penchant for leaving word puzzles behind at his crime scenes, so far seemed to target high ranking individuals in Gotham, two politicians (the mayor and the district attorney) and most recently a crime boss (Carmine Falcone). Each murder was even more gruesome than the last and Oswald had it on good authority from his contact at the G.C.P.D. that Falcone -- top kingpin of Gotham, with the whole city once terrified of his name -- had shat himself _ante-mortem_ ; as the Riddler had been torturing him. Hearing that alone had been enough to make Oswald’s blood run cold let alone the gruesome condition of Falcone’s mutilated body which Oswald’s contact had described for him with an abundance of detail that bordered on the obscene.

“So, you know, watch your back, Oz,” the cop had said, with more glee than concern in his tone. “This Riddler person does _not_ like crime lords.”

Oswald had thought about telling the cop where he could stick his phoney advice but he didn’t need any more enemies gunning for him.

Here in his beautiful Iceberg Lounge, surrounded by thumping music and gyrating bodies, enveloped with cigarette smoke and wine fumes, he finally felt safe. In the back of his mind he knew that was naïve but he couldn’t help it, he’d been on edge for so long. 

He waded through the crowd to the old-fashioned elevator from the Victorian era, one of the ones made of carved metal that you could see through, and took the lift upstairs to his own private bar and office, completely secluded from the chaos below. Several of his bodyguards scattered about the bar straightened up when he lumbered in. He had to admit that even among these hired goons, he cut an intimidating figure with his scarred face, ponderous physique and cold dark eyes.

He took a deep wheezy breath. “Take a load off, boys.”

The goons looked at each other. “Boss?” questioned one.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Oswald snapped. “I’m giving you all a night off. So go. Have a drink. Unwind. But whatever it is you’re planning on doing, make sure you do it far away from me.”

The men didn’t need to be told twice -- they all filed out the door and down the stairs. As soon as the last one had left, Oswald slammed the door behind them and locked it. Then he went to the bar and pulled out a bottle from underneath the counter. Forty-six year old scotch -- his parents had bought the bottle the moment his mother had announced she was pregnant with him. Of course, once he had been born his father had been so disgusted with his deformities -- one shoulder higher than the other, one leg shorter than the other, his fingers melded together so that they looked like mittens of flesh -- that the bastard had nearly thrown the bottle out. Oswald’s mother had saved it for him, though. “For when you make us rich and respected once more,” she’d said. “Only you can make the Cobblepots a great dynasty again, my little penguin.”

Penguin. It was sweet when his mother had called him that; not so much when anyone did now. Now it was meant as an insult to him, not an endearment, and whoever was brave (or stupid) enough to try calling him by that sobriquet wouldn’t live long enough to laugh about it.

Pouring himself a glass of the amber liquor, he wandered to the front of the bar to survey his desk on the opposite end of the room. Something was different -- out of place. He scanned his desk. It was neat and tidy, with everything put away, not like he’d left it. He ran a finger over the rich dark wood…not a pencil shaving, nor an eraser crumb. Someone had cleaned his desk, Oswald thought with a sinking stomach, and it wasn’t one of his goons.

Then, as though his secret fear manifested itself, a dark figure rose up from behind his desk where it had been hiding. 

“ _Jesus_ , fuck,” Oswald breathed, his heart giving a terrible lurch.

The intruder was completely covered from head to toe, its body clothed in dark baggy clothing that looked army fatigues, its head encased in a dark green leather mask that also looked like something out of the military. A pair of glasses were taped on top of the mask.

“Guess who?” it said, its voice sounding male and young. Younger than Oswald anyway.

“Riddler.” Oswald said. He was surprised and proud of himself that his own voice didn’t shake. His hand holding the glass of scotch, however, was a different story. He nearly dropped it as the unwelcome visitor jumped up on the desk, dangling his legs over the edge.

“That’s what they call me,” the Riddler, said, nodding solemnly. “And what do they call you? Penguin, isn’t it?”

“Not for long,” Oswald growled. He gripped his glass of scotch tighter but didn’t dare risk taking his eyes off this maniac to have another drink.

“Too bad,” the Riddler mused, kicking his legs slightly, “I think it suits you.”

“And how exactly,” Oswald was surprised at the level of venom in his tone -- this was a psychotic serial killer he was talking to after all, “does it suit me?” He’d heard it all before. He was short. He was fat. He had a big nose. He walked funny. All easy targets for ridicule. 

“’Cause penguins are cute, just like you,” the Riddler chirped. Oswald had barely processed that statement and come to terms with the blush warming his face when the Riddler kicked the chair towards him. Oswald caught it. “Have a seat, please.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“I wasn’t asking. I mean I did say ‘please’ but that was just to be polite.” The Riddler held up a roll of duct tape in one hand and a switchblade in the other. 

“On second thought, I’ll take that seat,” Oswald said quickly.

“Perfect,” the Riddler said and as soon as Oswald had seated himself he hopped right off the desk and climbed astride Oswald’s lap. Oswald leaned as far back as he could in his leather armchair but the Riddler just nestled closer to him, resting his hands on the older man’s shoulders, which, to the latter’s horror, still held the roll of duct tape and the switchblade. “Ahh, _much_ better,” the Riddler said. “You’re so much more comfortable than the desk. All soft and squishy. I love it.”

“Glad to accommodate you,” Oswald said dryly, his face burning at the Riddler’s words. Was the man trying to get under his skin? Calling him cute, hinting provocatively about his less-than-slender body, sitting in his goddamn lap, for fuck’s sake. “I’m Oswald, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” the Riddler said in his flippant way. “I already know your name. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”

“You’ve done your research,” Oswald said.

“Nope, I just saw the name plaque on your desk.” The Riddler began to trace Oswald’s jaw with the flat of his blade. Oswald’s blood ran cold. He’d almost forgotten that this eccentric, childlike man was a serial killer, a serial killer who targeted men like him.

“So what’s your name?” he asked.

“Edward,” the Riddler brought the knife away from Oswald’s jaw and the latter breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “Nashton.”

“Edward. That’s a nice name.” Oswald said, trying to meet the younger man’s eyes behind his glasses. “Are you going to kill me, Edward?”

Edward sighed through his mask. “Haven’t decided yet. It depends.”

“Depends on what?” Oswald finally caught the masked man’s eyes with his own and saw that they were lovely; pale green and almond-shaped and so very, very curious.

“Depends on whether you’re a liar like the others.”

Great. Fucking perfect. He was a dead man. He held up his scotch. “Mind if I finish my drink before you kill me?”

“By all means.”

Oswald tipped his head back, swilling the entire glass of scotch in one go.

Edward tilted his head at him. “What makes you so sure I’m going to kill you?”

Oswald nearly choked on his drink. “Are you kidding me?” he blurted out. “I’m a fucking criminal! All I do is lie! If that’s all it takes to get on your hit list then you better hurry up and kill me and get it over with. Just don’t expect me to shit myself like Falcone did.”

Edward gave a tiny gasp behind the mask. “And _how_ do you know about _that_?” he asked, laughter in his voice. 

_Oh, fuck_. Oswald closed his eyes, cursing his own stupidity. “I have a contact at the G.C.P.D.,” he muttered quickly, then drained the last remaining drop of his scotch.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Edward’s sing-song tone was both playful and threatening and it made Oswald feel things he hadn’t felt in years. “And what else did your contact tell you about Falcone’s tragic expiry?”

“That you’d cut off his fingers and toes, carved question marks all over his entire torso then wrapped his whole head in duct tape until he suffocated.” Oswald listed off the atrocities in as neutral a tone as he could muster. Not judgmental but not admiring either. 

“Did your contact tell you what was under the duct tape?” Edward leaned closer to Oswald’s ear. “Or to phrase it better, what wasn’t under it?”

Oswald shook his head. “You’ve lost me.”

Edward drew back. “I scalped him!” he crowed in high glee. “That was when he shat himself. I also gouged his eyes out and cut his nose and lips off before I put the duct tape on. Did your contact tell you that?”

Oswald, who was fighting a wave of nausea, managed to say that no, his contact had not told him that.

Edward scoffed. “I’m not surprised. The police are idiots. I didn’t do that to the first two victims so they don’t even bother removing the tape now.” He paused. “The Batman would have removed the tape.”(The way Edward said ‘the Batman’ with such reverence made Oswald’s lip curl.) He shifted on Oswald’s lap, glanced restlessly over his shoulder. “I should…I should probably go.”

“Wait!” Oswald said, sharper than he meant to, grabbing the younger man’s jacket lest he leap out of his lap and flee into the night like some gruesome version of Cinderella. It was absurd -- a few short moments ago he’d wanted nothing more than to get this mask wearing, duct tape loving little freak out of his lap, now all he wanted was to keep him there.

Edward fidgeted again. “I still have a lot of work to do out there.” 

“Oh yes, all those liars to kill, Batmen to antagonize,” Oswald sneered, anger making him bold. “What are you even trying to accomplish anyway? Gotham is beyond redemption . Has been for years. You can’t fix it.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” Edward murmured, defensive. “I just want people to see the corruption -- to stop pretending everything is normal.”

Oswald shook his head in disgust. “You’re going to end up getting yourself killed.”

Edward gave a tiny shrug. “I couldn’t care less.” 

Oswald blinked. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“After my work is complete…” Edward gave a deep shuddering sigh. “There will be no reason for me to be alive anymore. I have nothing -- no one -- to live for.”

Something small and fragile in Oswald’s chest broke at the level of hopelessness, of despair, in the younger man’s demeanour. 

“Look at me, Edward,” he ordered. Incredibly, the masked man obeyed, raising his eyes to meet Oswald’s once again. “You can’t think like that. You can’t be so indifferent about your own life, so ready to just throw it all away. Don’t you realize what a waste that would be?!”

There was silence for a beat, then a loud sniff behind the mask. “Why are you saying these things to me?” Edward whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you,” Oswald said honestly, earnestly. “You’re brilliant, the way you’re able to run rings around the G.C.P.D. and even the Batman.”

Edward all but preened. “I know.” If he hadn’t been wearing gloves Oswald was certain the smug little shit would have buffed his probably filthy fingernails on his very definitely filthy jacket.

“Bear in mind I also think you’re an idiot for putting yourself in harm’s way like you do, not caring about your own life,” Oswald added in a bored tone.

Edward straightened up indignantly. “ _Hey_!”

“Plus you have atrocious grooming habits,” Oswald went on, enjoying himself. “When’s the last time you had a shower? And don’t even get me started on your fashion sense.”

“I’ve been a little busy serial killing, taunting the police about it and playing mind games with the Batman!” Edward exploded. “I haven’t had time for such frivolous luxuries. And what the hell’s wrong with my fashion sense?”

“Aside from your clothes being so revoltingly dirty that I’ll have to throw away my own custom-made three piece suit now that you’ve been in contact with it? They’re far too plain and baggy. I mean with a waistline like yours,” here Oswald slid his flipper-like hands around the subject of his conversation and squeezed, eliciting a squeak from its owner, “you could wear anything. I’d love to hook you up with some suits that would flatter you better.”

“You’d do that?” Edward was panting in Oswald’s tight grip. “For me?”

“I think…” Oswald hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “I think I’d do anything for you.”

Edward’s breath came in ragged bursts as though he was about to start crying.

“I can’t explain it, but I would.” Oswald said, surprised at his own honesty. “You know I’m telling the truth now, right?” Edward sniffed, then nodded. “So, you do what you have to do, expose the corruption of the elites in Gotham, torment the Batman -- whatever. But be _careful_ , for fuck’s sake. Stay alive. Because I’d really like to see you again. Preferably without that eyesore of a mask on.”

Edward giggled. It was a more beautiful sound than any bird could make and Oswald knew his birds. “Yeah, I’d like that too, Oswald.”

Oswald canted his head at him. “You sure you can’t take it off?”

Edward’s hands twitched, then raised to his mask. Oswald held his breath only to exhale when Edward dropped his hands again without removing the mask. 

“I…I’m not ready for you to see me just yet.”

“That’s okay,” Oswald reassured him. “That actually works better! Gives me something to look forward to.”

“I don’t know…” Edward shrugged up one shoulder shyly. “I’m not much to look at.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Oswald took hold of the front of Edward’s leather-clad face where he presumed his chin was, “when the moment arrives. And the moment _will_ arrive. Do I make myself clear?”

Edward’s eyelashes fluttered behind his glasses. “Yes sir.”

Oswald smirked. He was loving this evil little genius more and more all the time. “Good.”


End file.
